About the Book

  FRIDAY BARNES IS EUROPE’S MOST WANTED!

  Friday’s mum, the Nobel Prize winning physicist, has been accused of espionage. The police think she’s been selling secrets about the CERN Hadron Super Collider.

  Friday knows her mother isn’t capable of such a thing – this is a woman who can’t even operate a dishwasher. Friday has to smuggle herself into Switzerland to clear her mum’s name. Fortunately, Melanie is a master of disguise.

  After an extremely extreme makeover, Friday arrives at CERN and finds an institution in chaos, with axolotls in the water coolers, graffiti in the great hall and most baffling of all – her sister has fallen in love with an engineer! Can Friday solve these mysteries? Can she keep her family out of prison? And can she recognise Ian if he shaves his head?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Previously in Friday Barnes . . .

  Chapter 1: Not Today

  Chapter 2: What next?

  Chapter 3: Finding Friday

  Chapter 4: Library Visit

  Chapter 5: Gare de Lyon

  Chapter 6: Metamorphosis

  Chapter 7: Now or Never

  Chapter 8: Bellegarde Station

  Chapter 9: CERN

  Chapter 10: The Police Station

  Chapter 11: Moving On

  Chapter 12: Enter Mum

  Chapter 13: Mum’s Place

  Chapter 14: The Missing Boyfriend

  Chapter 15: The Sister

  Chapter 16: The New Cheese

  Chapter 17: Ian

  Chapter 18: Building a Robot

  Chapter 19: Robot Wars

  Chapter 20: Trouble with Bernie

  Chapter 21: The Chase

  Chapter 22: What Next?

  About the Author

  Books by R. A. Spratt

  Friday Barnes: Collect Them All . . .

  Imprint

  Read More at Penguin Books Australia

  To the fans

  Thank you for everything.

  It is ten years since I first started writing about Friday Barnes. The eight and nine-year-olds who read the books when they first came out are now grown-ups. Sometimes when I’m doing a presentation, I look up and wonder – ‘Who are those sophisticated young adults sitting at the back and why are they grinning at me?’ and then I realise – they’re Friday Barnes fans. They went to Highcrest Academy too. They helped Friday solve her mysteries. They raced across the polo field on horseback with Ian. They were there when Binky won the potato race, when Melanie revealed her great gift for archery and when Friday got stuck on a cliff face with Ian. They have been a part of this whole world.

  It is amazing to me that anyone pays any attention to me at all, but to have so many young people enjoy these books over so many years is just wonderful. There is so much joy to be had in storytelling. I am very lucky to have this very strange job. Thank you for a wonderful ten years.

  Friday and Ian were with Uncle Bernie and Agent Okeke. They had just emerged from a Paris Police Station after a long day of chasing art thieves, when Melanie met up with them.

  ‘Come on,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘All this talk of pizza is making me hungry. I’ll take you all for dinner.’

  ‘Wait right there!’

  A man in a grey suit and two uniformed police officers surged out of the building. The man grabbed Friday by the shoulder.

  ‘Freitag Barnes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Friday. Her birth had been registered in Switzerland and her father was incompetent, so the German word for Friday, Freitag, was what was written on her birth certificate and passport.

  ‘We need you to come with us for questioning,’ said the man.

  ‘What for?’ demanded Bernie.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Friday. She was starting to panic. She did not like the look in the officers’ eyes. They were holding back. There was something going on that they wanted to keep from her.

  The man in the suit nodded to one of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Then I’m arresting you,’ said the man.

  Friday gasped. The next moment, the uniformed officer had stepped behind her and snapped handcuffs onto her wrists.

  ‘What for?’ repeated Bernie.

  ‘Conspiracy to commit an act of treason,’ said the man. ‘And conspiracy to provide military secrets to a hostile regime.’

  ‘You’re accusing her of terrorism?’ cried Ian incredulously.

  ‘Not again,’ moaned Friday.

  Everyone started yelling at once. ‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Ian. ‘She was exonerated!’

  ‘She’s a consultant for Interpol!’ argued Bernie.

  ‘Which is why she is so dangerous,’ countered the man. ‘I’m a senior investigator working with the French National Police. I have been tasked with interviewing her.’

  ‘You people wouldn’t know a terrorist if one stuck a bomb up your . . .’ Agent Okeke was stabbing her finger in the investigator’s face as she screamed this at him in French.

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t do it,’ muttered Friday.

  ‘She’s been cleared by Interpol,’ said Bernie. He was getting so agitated he was waving his hands in the investigator’s face trying to emphasise his point. ‘She has level-three security clearance.’

  ‘There’s been an incident,’ snapped the investigator. ‘A member of her immediate family has been arrested.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Friday.

  ‘That is classified,’ said the investigator.

  ‘What for?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘That’s also classified,’ said the investigator. ‘This girl is a known terrorist associate. We have to presume she is involved.’

  ‘She didn’t know her university tutor was part of a terrorist sleeper cell!’ exclaimed Bernie.

  The investigator shook his head. He wasn’t going to be swayed. ‘She can’t be allowed to walk the streets while a cloud is over her head.’

  ‘But it’s not forecast to rain today,’ said Melanie, looking up at the sky.

  Everyone looked up. They couldn’t help themselves. It was such an odd thing to say.

  ‘What?’ said the investigator, still looking at the clouds. His mind was on terrorist threats, so his train of thought had gone to acid rain and radiation clouds.

  Then something metallic clattered to the ground. It had a distinctive heavy sound. Everyone knew even before looking, that the handcuffs were on the footpath. They were lying next to a twisted paperclip and a small metal shiv. Friday Barnes was running across the road. Brakes screeched as motorists tried to avoid hitting her. Then obscenities were being hurled about in French. Some were swearing at Friday. Others were swearing at the cars that had stopped suddenly.

  ‘Quick, don’t let her get away!’ ordered the investigator.

  The uniformed officers leapt into the road in pursuit and BAM! They were immediately sent flying by a cyclist. The bicycle hit the first police officer, smashing him into the second police office, then flipped over and landed on top of them both.

  ‘You idiots!’ yelled the investigator.

  One of the officers was so tangled in the bicycle frame it was hard to know where his limbs began and the bike ended. The other had blood pouring out of his head.

  ‘Someone call the police!’ yelled the cyclist. He was lying in the gutter clutching his ribs, but he didn’t look too bad. Unlike the police officers, he was wearing a helmet.

  ‘Oh, they are the police,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Then call an ambulance!’ shouted the cyclist.

  ‘She’s getting away!’ yelled the investigator.

  Friday was not an athletic person, but she really did not want to go to jail, so she was highly motivated. In the three seconds it had taken for the police officers to be knocked flying, she had made it all the way across the road and disappeared into an alleyway. The Paris Police Headquarters was on the Left Bank. An unreconstructed part of Paris that was a rabbit warren of tiny streets and even tinier alleys. If you wanted to disappear in seconds, this was the ideal place. Friday was gone from sight.

  ‘Do I have to do everything?’ demanded the investigator, still yelling at his injured colleagues.

  ‘So far, you’ve done nothing,’ Ian pointed out.

  The investigator glowered, then ran after Friday. Although he did have the good sense to look both ways while waving his police badge at the traffic to make sure he wasn’t hit himself.

  Bernie, Melanie, Agent Okeke and Ian were left standing on the footpath, looking at the two injured officers and the cyclist.

  ‘What are we meant to do now?’ asked Ian.

  Bernie started to remove his necktie. ‘Apply first aid, I suppose,’ he said, as he crouched down and used his tie as a bandage around the wounded officer’s head.

  ‘You should use that as a tourniquet,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Around his neck.’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ said Bernie.

  ‘Stepping in front of a bicycle was,’ said Agent Okeke.

  ‘We’ve got to go after Friday and help her,’ said Ian. He stepped into the road and was narrowly missed by another cyclist.

  ‘Bouge, l’imbicile!’ yelled the cyclist as he sped past.

  Bernie grabbed Ian by the shoulder and yanked him back onto the sidewalk, out of the bike lane.

  ‘Calm down. Friday will be alright. But she’s got a better chance of getting away if she’s on her own,’ said Bern ie. ‘She’s small and good at going unnoticed.’

  ‘The brown cardigan is more effective than military-grade camouflage,’ agreed Melanie.

  ‘We can’t just leave her out in the city of Paris on her own!’ said Ian. ‘It’s getting dark. She’s got nowhere to go. No-one to help her.’

  ‘Friday is a genius,’ said Bernie. ‘She’ll figure something out.’

  ‘She’s a five-foot-two fifteen-year-old with nonexistent social skills, no money, no phone, in a foreign city on the run from terrorism charges,’ said Ian.

  ‘She’s handled worse before,’ said Melanie. ‘She did four years at Highcrest Academy. She’s got survival skills.’

  Agent Okeke drove Melanie and Ian back to the art institute.

  ‘Why are we coming back here?’ asked Ian. ‘Our operation is over.’

  ‘Captain Barnes will be at HQ all night answering questions and trying to get to the bottom of these accusations against Friday,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘They would love to grill you two as well, but they can’t because you’re minors and foreign and they don’t have any evidence against you.’

  ‘We should be trying to help Friday,’ said Ian.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Until she makes contact.’

  ‘You think she will?’ asked Ian.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘But she is a child, and she seems irrationally fond of you both. If she does make contact, the best way you can help her would be to do nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ said Melanie. ‘That doesn’t sound helpful.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘But it’s not unhelpful either. If you try to meet up with her, you’ll lead the counter-terrorism investigator straight to her. They’ll be watching you, tapping your phones and hacking into your computers. The counter-terrorism unit has the authority to violate anybody’s privacy and they love doing it. They’ll be waiting for her to reach out to you.’

  ‘So, you’re saying,’ queried Ian, ‘Don’t try and find her?’

  ‘No, idiot,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’m saying – when you try to find her, do it subtly.’

  ‘Will you help us?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve just assaulted three fellow officers,’ said Agent Okeke. She had been a little overenthusiastic while arresting the art thieves earlier in the day. ‘I can’t be seen to aid a fleeing terrorist. But you can. You’re kids. You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Except spending the rest of our childhoods in juvenile-detention facilities,’ said Ian.

  ‘Big deal!’ said Agent Okeke. ‘What’s school if it’s not a juvenile-detention facility? Everyone has to go to school.’

  Agent Okeke pulled up in front of the art institute. Ian and Melanie got out.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ian.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Agent Okeke, before speeding away.

  ‘She’s really warming up to us,’ said Melanie with a fond smile.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Well, I’m going to take a nice long nap,’ said Melanie.

  ‘You’re kidding?!’ said Ian.

  ‘Agent Okeke just told us the best way to help is to do nothing,’ said Melanie. ‘Nothing is something I excel at.’

  ‘So you’re just going to do as you’re told?’ asked Ian.

  ‘I do when it was something I was planning to do anyway,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about Friday?’ asked Ian. ‘Who knows what’s happening to her right now.’

  ‘Ian, I know you love Friday,’ said Melanie. ‘But no-one loves her more than me. You’re just in love with her. I best friend love her. I spend time with her twenty-four hours a day. Just not having her here with me make me uncomfortable. I miss her with every fibre of my body. But making myself sick with worry won’t help her. Being well rested, appropriately dressed and having a no-limits credit card in my pocket is the best way I can help Friday when we find her.’

  Ian hadn’t really thought about how much Friday meant to Melanie. They were both lonely girls in different ways. They had formed a symbiotic relationship. They were like algae and fungus combining to make lichen. They thrived together, but it was hard for either one of them to cope alone. He realised that Melanie wasn’t necessarily as happy and easy-going as she always outwardly appeared to be. He didn’t know what to say in response.

  Melanie just smiled at him, the same way he had seen her smile at her dim-witted big brothers. ‘Goodnight,’ she said. She gave Ian a hug. Then went inside to walk up the five flights to her dorm room.

  Melanie never set an alarm. There was no point. Alarms didn’t work on her. She woke up when she was ready to wake up. Or when Friday woke her up by shaking her vigorously by the shoulder or talking animatedly in her ear about whatever crisis was going on while she slept. This morning she was being woken by a different voice. A voice that just kept saying the same word over and over.

  ‘Melanie . . . Melanie . . . MELANIE . . .’

  Melanie’s brain started to process this information. She remembered that her name was Melanie. The voice may well be talking to her.

  ‘Whadyouwan,’ she mumbled into the pillow.

  ‘Melanie, wake up. We need to rescue Friday, remember?’

  Melanie’s brain was grinding slowly up through the gears. Friday wasn’t just a day of the week. It was also her best friend. Her friend needed rescuing? This idea sounded familiar. Then Melanie remembered an image from the previous afternoon, the image of Friday running down an alley and disappearing into the back streets of Paris.

  ‘She’s just getting croissants,’ said Melanie, turning over and trying to blot out the voice with the pillow.

  ‘No, she’s on the run from the police, remember? She’s a wanted terrorist.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Melanie. It all came flooding back now. She was worried about Friday, which was bad, but she was even more upset when she realised there was no way she could get out of waking up. You can’t hit the snooze button when your best friend is on the run from the counter-terrorism squad. With some groaning, Melanie eventually sat up.

  ‘Good,’ said Ian. He had a laptop. Now that Melanie was sitting up, he put it on her lap so he could show her the screen. ‘I stayed up last night working out where she could be.’

  Melanie rubbed her eyes. The screen seemed unnecessarily bright for so early in the morning.

  ‘An average fit adult can jog at about ten kilometres an hour . . .’ began Ian.

  ‘Friday isn’t of average fitness,’ mumbled Melanie.

  ‘No,’ agreed Ian. ‘And there are no straight lines in Paris, so she’d move slower than that. Even so, it’s been eleven hours since she ran off. That means Friday could be anywhere within a one-hundred-and-ten-kilometre radius by now.’

  ‘That’s a lot,’ said Melanie. Her mind was horrified by the thought of walking so far in any time frame.

  ‘Although,’ continued Ian. He was sounding quite manic. Staying up all night had not agreed with him. ‘Even if she was fit, there’s no way she could run for eleven hours straight. Not after yesterday and the chase through the sewers.’

  ‘Apart from anything else,’ said Melanie. ‘She would need a shower. Sewers are gross and even fugitives must observe some level of hygiene.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ian. He didn’t agree with Melanie’s statement, but Melanie often made strange statements, and it was usually better not to ask follow-up questions. ‘She has no money that we know of . . .’

  ‘Unless she’s robbed a bank,’ said Melanie.

  ‘That would be out of character,’ said Ian. ‘Also, banks are closed at night and therefore harder to rob. But even without money, she could have hitched a lift, or jumped in the back of a van or snuck on to public transport.’

  ‘So you woke me up at this horrible hour to tell me that Friday could be anywhere?’ clarified Melanie.

 

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